It easeth some, though none it ever cured, to think their dolour others have endured.
The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.
Each present joy or sorrow seems the chief.
Poor and content is rich, and rich enough.
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
In springtime, the only pretty ring time Birds sing, hey ding A-ding, a-ding Sweet lovers love the spring—